


Overworked

by GhostGarrison



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Caretaking, Cuddling & Snuggling, Exhaustion, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 16:30:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7809031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostGarrison/pseuds/GhostGarrison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Between healing the people of Darktown, helping Hawke chase slavers and bandits, and working towards the revolution of his lifetime, Anders doesn't have a lot of time to take care of himself. Thankfully, Hawke helps him with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Overworked

Ever since he opened the clinic in Darktown, Anders has been busy with healing broken arms, curing infections, and saving both old and young from being taken by the annual influenza.

But ever since more and more Ferelden refugees flooded into Kirkwall during the Blight, he’s rarely had time to stop.

These days, between healing the people of Darktown, accompanying Hawke on his many ventures across the Free Marches, and working toward revolution with the Mage Underground, he’s not left with much time for himself. Sometimes Anders finds himself awake for days on end, not being able to remember the last time he ate or slept.

Just when he thought he’d get a break, word comes that a local mine shaft has collapsed, and Anders can tell it’s truly disastrous by the utterly distressed looks on the young messengers’ dirt-stained faces. No doubt, they have family working in the mines—a father, a sister, anyone who is fit and able to put a pick to rock. He sighs, bracing himself for the worst.

And the worst does come through his doors. He heals injury after injury, reversing internal bleeding unseen by the untrained eye, stitching together flesh to be whole again. For every five that he can help, there is one he cannot. He laments the people he is unable to save, for they have come to him far too late.

Hours later—perhaps it is now morning, Anders would not know—he finishes healing the last recovered victim brought to his doorstep. His own skin and robes are stained with blood, blood that should have never been spilt if the mine owner had taken the right precautions and spared no expense in reinforcing the shaft. Justice rattles with anger just beneath the surface of his skin.

With the majority of his patients unconscious or sleeping, Anders finds himself shaken. Restless. Itching to fulfill his purpose that is more than just healing. He paces the length of the clinic, hiding his restlessness under the guise of checking in on his patients.

He does this for a time he could not measure. Slowly but surely, his patients awaken, thanking him for his service before returning to their homes, to their loved ones. Their gratitude is all he could ever ask for, and he offers a weak, tired smile to each one as they leave.

Finally, when the last one departs, he plops himself down on a nearby cot, immediately dropping his head into his hands. There’s a wretched pain building behind his eyes, piercing his skull like a sword through armor. Though pressing his fingers to his eyes doesn’t help, it provides just enough momentary relief.

A warm weight presses to his back, making him jump. A hand settles on his shoulder, accompanied by a achingly familiar and comforting voice. “It’s just me.”

“Hawke,” Anders says with a sigh, and every ounce of the fatigue that plagues his body is audible. He hangs his head, feeling unable to muster the energy to string more than a few words together to form a coherent sentence.

“I heard what happened,” Hawke says, keeping his hand where it’s settled on his shoulder and Anders appreciates the solid grounding it provides. The man glances around the emptied clinic quickly before returning his attention to Anders. “Though obviously not quick enough. Word doesn’t travel fast to Hightown.”

When he doesn’t reply, Hawke’s hand trails from one shoulder to the other before looping back again. Though he doesn’t look, Anders can feel himself being examined with a keen eye. 

“When was the last time you slept?”

It feels like an accusation.

Instead Anders laughs, the sound coming out as only a curt exhale. That’s all he has in him at the moment. Now that he thinks about it, he has no idea when the last time he laid down to rest. “What day is it?”

“Anders!”

“I’m fine,” he replies, but his voice betrays him. In an attempt to prove it to Hawke, he stands up from the cot. But his legs tremble, weak from the strain of use and the exhaustion. The ground momentarily sways beneath him, the room spins, and he braces himself to hit the hard clinic floor.

A pair of arms loop around him, keeping him from collapsing completely. Those thick, warm arms that have slowly become familiar over time. He cannot help but to melt into their gentle touch.

Like a pile of unwashed linens, he’s gathered into Hawke’s arms, the man not giving him even a single word during the process. During any other circumstance, Anders would have protested against being carried anywhere. Instead, this time, he trusts those arms to hold him close and carry him to where he needs to go.

He dozes, not being able to keep the minutes straight and ordered in his memory. But one thing is unmistakable, and it’s the lips pressed to his hair, his forehead, to the heated slope of his neck. Hawke is muttering something incomprehensible to him, and he can’t find it in himself to care to ask the man to repeat himself.

When his back hit something soft, he’s jostled awake. There’s an ornate plaster roof over his head, and he discovers that Hawke has lowered him onto a large, soft bed. Thick fingers quickly unclasp the front of his robes, and the rush of cool air against his sweat-slicked skin causes him to tremble. The feeling doesn't last long as a warm washcloth skims across the bare expanse of his chest, wiping away the lingering sweat.

“Why…” Anders asks, words muffled by the way he mumbles.

Instead of an answer, he feels a kiss being pressed to his forehead again. “Sleep,” commands Hawke’s low and husky voice.

It’s the last thing he hears before he does just that.

 

+

 

When Anders awakes, the first thing he notices is the warm light engulfing the room from the setting sun. Darktown is not usually graced by sunlight, hence its name.

The realization causes him to jolt upright, the bulk of three wool blankets pooling to his lap. He isn’t in Darktown, but rather in a rather familiar and luxurious mansion. His eyes settle on the man seated at a small table in the corner of the large room, spreading jam on a warm buttered roll.

Hawke just returns his gaze, saying nothing.

“How long—” Anders begins to ask, but his voice is clouded from sleep. Clearing it, he tries again. “How long have I been sleeping?”

“Oh, I’d say about eleven hours.” He says it as though it was nothing, popping a piece of the bread into his mouth.

The number shocks Anders. Has he ever slept so long? The Circle kept a strict schedule, and the Grey Wardens never had anything steady at all with night shifts and the nomadic lifestyle. But even running the clinic gave him little time for something as extravagant as sleep.

“The clinic—” he says as he starts to climb out of bed, but Hawke stops him by simply holding up his hand.

“I sent word to Lirene, saying that you’ll be taking the day off,” the man supplies. “The lantern isn’t lit, and people know not to come looking for you.”

“People might need me,” Anders still protests, though he already knows he’s defeated.

“People need you alive,” Hawke replies, standing and retrieving the tray of food from the table. He walks to the bed with it, and Anders’ stomach growl in response to the delicious scent. “I need you alive.”

The second statement comes out as a confession, softer, more gentle and hesitant than the man’s usual confident and cocky behavior. It warms something within Anders, turning the peaks of his cheeks a light pink. They haven’t talked about it, but they both harbor feelings for one another that are more than just friendly.

There’s a hundred ways that Anders dreamed of ending up in Hawke’s bed, but suffering from exhaustion, passing out, and being carried there to sleep nearly half a day isn’t one of them.

Anders is hyper-aware of Hawke, who has come to join him sitting against the headboard of his four-poster bed. The man doesn’t stop there, though, but instead huddles snugly against Anders’ side, tossing an arm around him and pulling him flush against his broad chest.

Picking out an apple pastry, Hawke presses it into Anders’ hand. “You should eat.”

As he nibbles on the turnover, Hawke drops his face to nestle against the back of Anders’ neck. He can feel every breath the man takes, hot against his skin, causing him to shiver. It shouldn’t be so distracting, but the opportunity to focus on just one thing is relaxing.

A minute of silence passes.

“You need to take better care of yourself.”

“I’m sorry,” is all Anders can offer him. Though he is genuine, it’s still a powerless apology.

“You’ll run yourself into the ground, if you keep going on like this,” Hawke continues, not lifting his head from against his back. Those thick, warm arms snake around his waist, holding him tight like a child holds their stuffed mabari during a storm.

“At least I’d be helping people.” His response is meant to be honest but light-hearted, but the gruff grunt Hawke lets out tells him it’s anything else but that.

“I need you.” 

The man presses a kiss to his bare shoulder, the gesture full of a gentle intimacy that Anders has hungered for. 

“I love you.” 

Followed by another kiss, just at the nape of his neck.

“I cannot lose you.”

It’s the last declaration that shoots straight through his heart like an archer’s arrow. He has already asked Hawke for the materials for the explosives, he already has assembled them into something that could destroy something he’s been trying to take down for years.

Hawke may love him, but he will definitely lose him.

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this while drunk.
> 
> come find me on tumblr @ storybookhawke


End file.
